


cmd_mlware.connection

by ezziesworld (orphan_account)



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Character Study, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Drabble, F/M, Internal Conflict, Multiple Personalities, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:40:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24596155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ezziesworld
Summary: Elliot struggles with his newfound infatuation.
Relationships: Elliot Alderson/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	cmd_mlware.connection

There’s an infuriating dichotomy within me; multiple complex layers that are rooted to something deeper than superficial human coding. I am a complexity in my own mind, fighting with facets of my personality and if I am struggling with the concept of _my own_ functioning, she must view me as an enigma in the form of a man. 

Maybe that’s why she keeps coming back. There are good people in the world, suffused with the charlatans of that corrupted one percent, they are out there and they often live closest to the fucked up reality we call poverty and hardship. They understand - they know the troubles that come with simply _being_ , and sometimes, they want to help. Or maybe they just want to find that lost concept of control that leaves an empty pit in their chest with someone else. 

_Two negatives make a positive._

She’s one of the good ones - I know, because I hacked her two days after she knocked on my door asking for the landlords number (her sink was flooding, nothing new in this dilapidated slumlords wet dream), not inherently a saint among men, no one is. But she cares, she says so on her blog, where she posts her poetry that’s leaden with underlining depression and anxiety that struck me as genuine. More genuine than someone asking the same questions every day from across a bleak office, an empty gesture of a hand on the shoulder that always makes my skin prickle as though they shoved a handful of needles beneath the surface. She understands, she knows what it’s like to want to belong in the world and never speak a single word, never open yourself up to something that will inevitably render you to pieces at the end of it but still have that pull in your chest that yearns for integration, _connection_. 

_Have I found a connection with her?_

Our wires are similarly crossed, we view the world in a shared lens - there’s always disparity. She doesn’t talk to her dead father. I know that with certainty because her father is alive and living in Baskerfield, California. 

After exhausting all of her social media, immersing myself in her mind, her thoughts displayed with countless pages of coding revealed a picture of who she is, what she wants in this monotonous routine of life, I find myself feeling close to her, closer than anyone I’ve ever known, and she doesn’t know. 

She came to my apartment again; she’s pretty, I acknowledged that the first time, but I’m more focused on the red that rims her eyes, the darkness that shadows them to display another shared affliction - insomnia. 

“I had a feeling you were awake.” She says. Even her voice is tired, she looks like the epitome of exhaustion, the same kind that works into my body to make my bones feel like they’ve morphed into solid lead. 

_How is it that she’s still pretty?_

_**Maybe because you haven’t touched a woman since -** _

_stop._

“Life bogging you down, too?” She speaks up, and I realize that I haven’t said a word, just standing at the door with my fingers gripping the frame hard enough to turn my already pallor knuckles an ivory white. I hear him, speaking from behind me; he’s talking about her features, the way her skin looks in the yellowed hallway light that shudders every other second with a flicker, how a grimy yellow color could look like gold on the right canvas - or the hue of her eyes, the depths of her pupils blown wide with a familiar dilation that’s adding to the myriad of files I keep in my mind with her name on it, but they’re pretty, they’re doleful in a way that makes me want to lighten them. I’ve never wanted to offer someone comfort like I do her. 

**_It’s called a crush, kiddo - c’mon, you’re not that daft._ **

“What do you need?” It comes out flat, lifeless. Maybe that’s a good thing - maybe I don’t want to find that connection. It would be easier that way. 

She smiles, it doesn’t reach her eyes. He’s complimenting the cut of her blouse, the way the loose fabric falls against her chest, far enough that I can see the pendant of her necklace between the slight swell of her breasts. Bringing her hand from her side, she uncurls her fingers to reveal a small plastic bag and a lighter. There’s a zodiac symbol on it - an _n_ with a cursive twist. I don’t know what it means, I find I want to look it up. 

_Would we be be compatible? Two programs that run the same interface?_

“A friend.” She simply says. 

**_A friend - not many of those runnin’ around, for good reason. We’re not exactly the_ ** **companion** _**type.** _

“Maybe we need one of those, right now.” 

“Great minds think alike.” She says, softly. 

. 

She opens up when she’s high. I’m not surprised - most people do. I wish I could remove the block and enable the free flow of an unhindered thought-to-speech process - my brain lacks that function, but I find listening to her is better. 

Her name is pretty, too. I want to say it out loud, see if it tastes as good on my own tongue as hers - 

**We don’t have time for this - if you’re gonna get your dick wet, move on with the show and do it.**

I try to ignore him. Somewhere, I know what he’s saying is true, it resonates with me on an integral level because I am him, and he is me. Somehow we always find ourselves in this caper of conflicting opinions and choices. I’m aware of the intricacy of it all, that I am arguing with half of myself, sundered and embodied with logic that is plausible and probably right - but that’s just it. There are two halves, and I find myself conflicting with him, his sole quest for vigilantism is not what I want right now. 

I want to speak her name. 

I want to decrypt the strings of biologic code that materializes her being, compare it to my own and spot the differences - maybe that’s what needs to happen, to find the error, the incompatible among us both. 

_Maybe I don’t want there to be any._

“You never told me your name.” 

She turns her head to look at me, her eyes are red for a different reason, body melted into the sofa beside me in a euphoric high I know she feels, because I feel it, too. 

“Elliot.” I say. 

“Elliot.” She echoes. 

It sounds different when she says it, like it’s someone else - not me. She’s looking at me, keeping her hooded gaze on mine and I feel trapped, caught in the snare of everything I know about her now coalescing with her physical presence beside me and it’s overwhelming. I want to ask about her father, why she hasn’t spoken to him in three years. I want to pick her brain for meaning, for definitive answers to her ambiguous poetry that loops in my head with the amount of times I’ve read it. I wish I could hack her mind and discover what I couldn’t, what keeps me tethered to this infatuation that swells in my stomach, but I can’t. 

My ability to form normal connections is faulty - I’ll always have this knowledge of her, long before her cadence speaks them into fruition. Know more about her than she’s said, or may ever be willing to say. Some might consider that a blessing, if they were intending on forming a relationship. I’m not sure what I want. 

_**You wanted to say her name, didn’t you? Say it - or, if you’re walking on cold feet, I’ll say it for you.** _**_Seems_ **_**to me like you’d be willing to do more than** _ **say** _**it.** _

_No._

_Yes._

_That’s a bad idea - I can’t drag her into something she doesn’t deserve. She doesn’t deserve to be hindered with knowing me, let alone -_

“You’re up in your head a lot, aren’t you? I can relate to that.” She comments. “I’ve got some, um - some pretty bad anxiety. Is it like that for you, too?” 

I nod, she stretches out her hand and offers the pipe and lighter with a steady exhale of smoke, billowing from her full lips in a cloud that lingers in the air. 

“ _They_ tried pumping me full of meds for it. I didn’t like the way it fogged up my head, so I’m self medicating.” It’s a joke, the pipe in my hand really drives it home. I should probably laugh, but I’m more focused on our parallels. 

“I’m trying to work on it. That’s why I knocked, y’know? I got a sense of you, before. We’re kinda the same that way.” She shifts back against the sofa, crossing her arms over her stomach with a small smile. “It’s weird though - I don’t like being alone, but...It’s more bearable that way.” Her words soften, wistful. 

“I know what you mean.” I know exactly what she means - I know it all. 

“Then you know how it feels to want something, and be terrified of the repercussions?” 

“I do.” 

More than she’ll ever know - those thoughts of doubt and fear are ever present inside me, and right now, they’re roaring. How strange - I am omnipotent when given a computer, but I can never grasp the handle in regards to real human connection. Maybe that’s our first error in synchronization; but she says it like she knows, like there’s so much more to her mental blocks that she’s never laid out in real life, or online. 

I’m feeling that itch again - you know the one. This time, it’s her; she is the fixation, the malware that disrupts my program, burrowing into my head and scratching that part of my brain that hungers for cognizance. 

“Elliot?” She leans forward, I’m still holding the pipe, I haven’t hit it yet. 

He’s standing across the room, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, a sharp eyebrow raised in expectancy. Her perfume offsets the strong odor of the pot, pleasant and light, not overwhelming. 

I want to know her. I want to learn her, let myself drown in her even if it means I am a voyeur. I know - I shouldn’t. The repercussions are unknown variables, but my past experiences have set a pattern that should steer me clear from this desire to connect. We are broken, shattered differently but there is familiarity there, and maybe for once I can be an optimist. 

The way he looks at me tells me otherwise. He is reason - I am deviation. 

_Will you let me remember?_

_**Sure, kiddo.** _

I close my eyes and let him take control, if only to say her name. 


End file.
